Pakistani-Hindustani Bhai-Bhai, Literally Up in the
Sky!
Yoginder Sikand
We have a three-hour stop over at Lahore airport on
our way back to Delhi from Islamabad. I am excited
about going back home, but, at the same time, am sad
at the thought of leaving Pakistan. I don't know when,
if at all, I can come back here, if I can ever again
meet some of those wonderful people whom I almost
instantly bonded with in my short week-long visit to
the country. I wonder if I will again be fortunate
enough to get a visa to visit Pakistan.
After all, this, my second visit to Pakistan, was made
possible only after great effort and because of having
friends who had the right contacts in the right
places. After my first visit, three years ago, my
applications for a visa to return, to attend
conferences and meet friends, were repeatedly turned
down. The reason, so I heard: Upon my return from that
visit, some articles that I wrote on certain aspects
of life in Pakistan—the problems of Dalits and other
rural poor in Sindh and the crisis of intellectuals in
the country generally—were not quite liked by someone
in the Pakistan High Commission in New Delhi, who, so
I gather, assumed that this somehow made me highly
suspect. So, he made it a point to make sure that I
was to be refused to enter the country again by
putting my name on a particular 'list' of unwanted
elements. Of course, this someone did not care to
notice the good things that I had written about
Pakistan as well, and the fact, as I had mentioned in
my writings that he had seen, that we in India face
similar problems—observations which firmly
contradicted the opinion that he had formed about me.
But, somehow, I am back now in Pakistan and I feel
wonderful about it (after all, this was the home of
half of my ancestors!) and this week-long visit to
Islamabad has been overwhelming in every sense of the
term. This trip has afforded me an opportunity to see
a different side of Pakistan, in many respects quite
in contrast to what I observed on my first visit.
Islamabad is certainly the cleanest and most organized
city in all of South Asia, and the friends that I've
made on this trip have been exceptionally interesting:
social activists, religious scholars, journalists, NGO
workers and documentary film makers. All of which
makes me feel a sense of loss and a heavy sadness deep
down inside at the prospect that now that I should be
in Delhi in four hours' time and not knowing if I can
ever come back.
I spend my remaining Pakistani money at the Government
handicrafts' shop, picking up onyx vases and ashtrays
and a brightly-hued tapestry. 'I really wish I could
stay on in Pakistani longer', I tell the friendly
shopkeeper as he tots up my bill. He smiles, and says
as he shakes my hand firmly, 'Inshallah, you will be
back soon'.
I walk over to the cafeteria. A young handsome man
hands me a cup of tea and I repeat the same phrase
about wishing that I could stay in Pakistan longer,
meaning ever word of it. And he answers in an
identical fashion. 'Inshallah, you will come back
again', he assures me. We get chatting. His name is
Habib. He has just joined this job, having previously
worked in a local band. He has composed over a dozen
songs, he says, and on my pleading he sings his latest
composition: a Punjabi song about the pangs of
separated lovers.
A voice comes over the microphone, announcing the
imminent departure of Pakistan International Airlines'
flight to Delhi. A line forms around a counter, and I
join it at the end. 'I really wish I could stay on
longer', I tell the lady who checks my boarding pass
before I head for the gate leading to the plane.
'Inshallah, you will be here soon', she says coyly.
We have now taken off, and within five minutes we are
out of Pakistani territory, having crossed an
imaginary frontier into the Indian Punjab. Forty-five
minutes later, as the plane begins to descend, we are
above Delhi, flying over an urban jungle that extends
till the horizon. And just then, the plane begins to
quake like a leaf in the face of a terrifying typhoon.
It violently heaves up and down, this way and that. We
have been caught in a furious storm. Menacing black
clouds swell up outside the window, the darkness
broken by massive bolts of lightening. The plane
feverishly resists this sudden assault, and, I, in my
panic, imagine it is all in vain.
An elderly woman next to me seems on the verge of
fainting. Her eyes are shut tight, her face contorted
in terror. She buries her head in the lap of her
daughter, who is repeatedly taking the name of Allah,
exhorting Him for protection. I hear similarly
desperate cries to God and Ishwar buzz around me. We
all believe that this is the end. I have never come so
close to possible death before. Being a horribly
nervous air-traveller, this experience is grueling. My
heart is in my mouth, and I stomp my feet violently on
the floor as the plane furiously tilts from side to
side uncontrollably. Death has come, I imagine, and my
mind seeks to focus on God, begging for forgiveness of
sins and for His acceptance. If a violent death in an
air-crash is what He has decreed, then so be it, I
scream to myself. All this while, appeals to Allah,
Ishwar and God become louder and more desperate, all
of us, Indians and Pakistanis, Hindus and Muslims
finally united before the Creator in the face of what
we think is imminent death.
The ordeal lasts for almost twenty minutes. I do not
know how I survived that long. As we appear to be
crashing below through the blinding blanket of clouds
a desperate voice crackles over the microphone. I fear
for the worst. The airhostess announces that due to
'very bad' weather over Delhi we are forced to fly
back to Lahore. The plane then veers around suddenly,
as if retracing its steps. Wisely, the pilot takes a
slightly different route back, skirting the
rain-swollen clouds. But till we touch down in Lahore
an hour or so later we are all shocked into an eerie
silence in our seats, whispering our prayers to the
one God with multiple names.
'See, I told you that you would come back soon', beams
the keeper of the handicrafts shop in the airport when
we pile out of the plane, seeking to pacify me. Habib,
the young singer-turned-waiter at the airport
restaurant, welcomes me with a firm hug and an
identical reply. Yes, it is good to be back, to be
back on terra firma, to be back in Lahore, to be back
in Pakistan, to be back alive.
The passengers of the aborted flight are directed to a
PIA counter in the departure lounge. There we are
informed that there is no scheduled flight from Lahore
to Delhi for the next four days. We could wait till
then, we are told. I wish I could avail that option,
for it would give me four extra days in Pakistan. But,
I cannot, since my visa expires tomorrow.
We are advised to take an alternate route: to fly to
Karachi the next evening, and from there to Delhi,
obviously an arduously long journey. I hear noises of
protest. Frankly, I would not mind this option either.
That way, I could get to see a bit of Karachi, at
least its airport, said to be the swankiest in
Pakistan. But the grumbles of protest grow louder and
more aggressive. A hefty Pakistani man and two angry
Indian women surround the counter, threatening to go
on virtual strike and demanding that PIA arrange a
special flight to take us to Delhi directly. I think
their brusqueness is entirely uncalled for,
considering the valour of the intrepid PIA pilot (a
woman, it turns out) who steered us safely through
what could have been a deadly killer storm. But, now
that most of the other passengers have joined the
chorus demanding a special flight, I decide to keep
shut. So, finally, it is decided by our strike leaders
that we, a bunch of some fifty Pakistanis and Indians,
roughly equal in number, shall refuse to fly to
Karachi and, instead, shall press on with the demand
for a special flight to Delhi immediately. I quietly
submit to what I think is an entirely unreasonable
demand.
Three hours later, the PIA officials relent and
graciously announce that they have arranged for a
craft to take us to Delhi tomorrow evening. We are
informed that arrangements have been made for us to
stay at the nearby Airport Inn. Meanwhile, the three
white passengers have left the group, probably
planning to cross over into India through the
Attari-Wagah border crossing point, thirty miles away,
which we Indians and Pakistanis ironically cannot do
because our visas permit us only to fly to India and
not cross overland.
We file into vans waiting outside and are driven to
the inn—which turns out to be a modest privately-owned
lodge and not the fancy, government-owned five star
hotel that some passengers were obviously expecting,
judging by the angry clicking of tongues that I hear
when we arrive at the reception desk. The lodge is
short of rooms, we are told by the receptionist, and
so are to be put two to a room. This is done in an
entirely random fashion, which is, I feel, all to the
good, because most Indian and Pakistani passengers
find that they are forced, whether they like it or
not, to share rooms with a person of the other
nationality.
Rehan, a businessman from Gujranwala, and I have been
assigned the same room, which is barely large enough
to accommodate the bed that occupies almost all the
available space. We introduce ourselves to one
another, and, as all the other passengers seem to be
doing, talk about the harrowing experience on the
flight and about how glad we are to have been saved
from impending death. We walk up to the room together
and, after a quick wash, lunge into the bed and earn
some very well deserved sleep.
It is late evening when we wake up. Rehan insists that
I join him for dinner at a nearby eatery and refuses
to budge when I plead that we share the hefty bill. In
less than three hours, the panic that gripped all of
us on the flight in the face of the near-death
experience has bonded Rehan and me together in a
strange, unexplainable way. He's now 'Yaar', 'Bhai'
and 'Baba', and I slap him on the back and he does the
same to me. I already know much about his wife and his
three children, about his income and his passion for
travel and good food, and I've told him likewise about
myself. It seems that I've known Rehan for as long as
I can recall.
And this seems to be the case with most of the other
Indian and Pakistani passengers who have been herded
together in shared rooms in the Airport Inn. By now, I
am on first-name terms with at least half of the
passengers. So, I know about Nathu, the Hindu trader
from Sukkur in Sindh and his passion for Sufi music.
And Najma, a corpulent Shia woman from Lahore, who is
on the way to visit long-lost relatives in Lucknow.
And Haji Shams, a learned maulvi from Sargodha, who
has been invited to a conference in Delhi on ethics
and biotechnology. And Hussaini, a frail, elderly
woman from Hyderabad in Sindh who is heading for a
city with the same name in India for a medical
operation. And so on. And, likewise, the numerous
Indian passengers whose addresses I have noted and
whom I hope to meet once we get back to India,
Inshallah.
The next day is spent in the confines of the Airport
Inn, for we have no idea when the special craft that
we have been told would be arranged for us would
depart. Rehan and I sit on the steps of the entrance
to the inn, watching the traffic pass by—cars, gaily
painted buses (each a work of art), Chinese-made
tempos and donkey-carts. This part of suburban Lahore
could easily pass for any north Indian town. Ayub
Khan, the hefty, amiable armed Pakhtun guard, keeps us
regaled with stories about his village nestled in the
mountains near the Afghan frontier. Some passengers
(Indians, I am ashamed to report) interrupt our
reverie with frantic shrieks hurled at the
receptionist for badly functioning air-conditioners,
taps which do not work and tea that has been served
cold.
At three in the afternoon, we are told that PIA has
arranged for a plane to take us to Delhi and that it
would depart at six thirty that evening. I react to
that announcement with relief, mixed with sadness at
the thought of imminent departure.
When we reach the airport we are told that the special
plane arranged for us is a forty-seater craft that
flies with the help of propellers. That sends me into
a spasm of agony. Surely, I tell myself, this tiny
craft that I think uses outmoded technology will not
be able to weather a storm over Delhi, if we are again
stuck in one. And the timing of the flight is another
major cause of trepidation. It is scheduled to arrive
in Delhi in the late evening, when, at this time of
the year, fierce squalls have a nasty habit of
breaking out.
I ascend the ladder leading up to the tiny plane with
a deep sense of fear. I wish there was some other way
of getting back to Delhi. But, there isn't, since our
visas strictly require us to return to Delhi by air
from Lahore, and so, I tell myself, there is no point
in fretting. The friendly steward guides me to my
seat, which is next to Rehan's. Rehan isn't making
things easier for me, as he talks about how diminutive
the plane seems, how feeble the propellers might be in
the face of a storm. Najma, the corpulent Lahori who
is heading for Lucknow, tries to make light of the
situation. Surveying the miniscule aircraft, which
looks like a slightly oversized toy plane, she jokes,
'It's as if we are all going on a family picnic!'.
I struggle to smile.
And, then, in a short while, we are airborne and I
whisper my prayers to God. The sky is remarkably
clear, a brilliant cloudless blue. The plane sails
majestically like a swallow in spring. The friendly
steward assures me, when I tell him that I am already
missing Pakistan, that I shall, Inshallah, return
soon.
Barely half an hour later, plane begins to descend,
and the airhostess informs us that we should be
reaching Delhi in a short while. My mind goes to
Pakistan, which we have left just thirty minutes ago,
and I also think of India, where we should be touching
down in half that time. How near the two countries
are, and yet so distant!
Then an idea strikes me. I grab a scrap of
paper—actually, half of the airsickness bag kept in
the pocket before me—and I scribble down the following
lines:
"Dear Friends,
Yesterday's near brush with death has brought all of
us, Pakistanis and Indians, so close
together. If in the face of death, our common destiny,
we can be so close, then why not in life, too? In
order to celebrate the close bonds that we all have
established in this one day, I propose that the moment
the plane touches down in Delhi, Allah/Ishwar willing,
we should raise the following slogan:
Pakistani-Hindustani Bhai Bhai!
Please read this note and pass it around."
I hand over the note to the passenger sitting behind
me, and it gradually weaves its way around the plane.
Just to make sure that everyone gets the message,
after a while I stand up and announce what the note is
all about. Aware that we have two feminists on
board—who had attended the same conference as I in
Islamabad—I add that the phrase "Bhai-Bhai" can be
substituted by "Behen-Behen", if the need is felt.
A panic-stricken airhostess, hearing my impassioned
speech, rushes to my seat, wondering what has
happened. 'I'm doing my politics', I tell her with a
chuckle, and she breaks into an approving smile when I
explain what my declamation is all about.
Five minutes later, the little plane gracefully
touches down at New Delhi airport and I hear a loud
chorus repeat after me, "Pakistani-Hindustani
Bhai-Bhai!".
Sukhia Sab Sansar Khaye Aur Soye
Dukhia Das Kabir Jagey Aur Roye
The world is 'happy', eating and sleeping
The forlorn Kabir Das is awake and weeping
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